Trigger Fast

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Just sit again, mister,’ Dusty answered.

  Behind him Mark entered, still supporting the two deputies, and dumped them in a heap on the floor. Mallick sat, but his right hand shot down to pull at the drawer of his desk, getting it open and exposing an Adams revolver which lay inside ready for use in such emergencies.

  Whatever use Mallick intended to put the gun to never came off. Dusty let Freda’s arm free and he lunged forward fast. His right hand trapped Mallick’s left wrist as it lay on the desk top. With his left hand, gripping it between his second and third fingers, Dusty caught up the pen Mallick had laid aside. Moving faster than Mallick had ever seen, Dusty inserted the pen between the bearded man’s two middle fingers. Then Dusty closed his hand, gripping down hard. With his hand scant inches from the butt of the Adams revolver Mallick stopped as if he’d run against an invisible wall. Pain, numbing, savage, agonizing pain rammed through his trapped hand. He could not cry out. All he could do was claw the right hand from the desk drawer and reach towards Dusty’s trapping fingers.

  Dusty released the hold before Mallick’s hand reached his. He stepped around the desk, took out the Adams and thrust it into his waist band. Then he moved back and took his first look at the Land Agent.

  Although he was tall and bulky Mallick did not give the impression of being a really hard man. He wore a good eastern style suit, white shirt and a neck-tie of sober hue. His face, what showed of it from behind the black beard, looked like the face of a man who spent some of his time out under the sun, which might be expected in his job. The eyes were light blue, cold and at the moment filled with hate as he studied his visitors.

  He did not have the look of a western man.

  Slowly his hand dropped towards the branding iron.

  Having closed the door Mark Counter stepped forward and took up the heavy iron, handling it like a child’s toy. He looked down at Mallick as he stepped back holding the iron between his hands, left below the handle, right at the head.

  ‘Lead us not into temptation,’ Mark drawled, ‘just like the good book says. Feller tried to hit me with one of these things, one time when he got riled.’

  ‘What do you pair want here?’ Mallick snarled, his accent sounding eastern. New York most likely from the way he spoke. ‘This’s private property. You could be jailed for attacking those deputies and coming in here.’

  ‘Why hombre,’ replied Mark calmly. ‘We found these two gents all a-swooning away in the heat and hauled them in.’

  ‘And it’s a trio, not us pair,’ Dusty went on. ‘You likely know Miss Lasalle. Her pappy came in to see you this morning. Allows anybody wants to trade at the store has to come and get a note from you.’

  ‘Where’d you hear a fool tale like that?’ growled Mallick.

  ‘I just told you hombre,’ Dusty answered, his nostrils quivering as he sniffed the air suspiciously He threw a glance first at Mark, then at Freda. ‘Whooee! I thought that bay rum you used was strong, Mark.’

  ‘That’s not mine,’ replied Mark, also sniffing.

  ‘Don’t look at me either,’ Freda gasped, also sniffing the sickly sweet aroma which aroused Dusty’s interest. She was both surprised and puzzled by it and laid the blame on some lady visitor to Mallick, only if she used that kind of perfume she was not likely to be a lady.

  ‘Smells like a Dodge City blacksmith’s,’ drawled Mark.

  ‘You ought to know,’ Freda answered, then blushed. A young lady should be unaware of the fact that a blacksmith, used in the way Mark spoke, had nothing to do with shoeing horses, but rather as acting as a pimp for ladies of easy virtue.

  ‘I’ve better things to do than listen to you lot jawing,’ snarled Mallick, wanting the subject changed, although not for the obvious reason.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, mister,’ Dusty drawled quietly. ‘You never had anything so important as seeing that we get the note to the store. See, old Mark here’s an easy-going boy when he’s fed. Trouble being we’re staying out at Freda’s place and they’re short on food. And when Mark gets hungry he gets mean and riled.’

  ‘Which same I’m getting hunger on me right now.’

  Saying this Mark raised the branding iron before him and tightened his grip. At first none of the others could see any sign, except in the way Mark’s face became set and grim. Then slowly, before the surprised eyes of Mallick and Freda, the stout iron bar began to bend. Freda saw the strain on Mark’s face, saw the way his shirt sleeves, roomy as they were, went taut against the swell of his biceps as they rose and writhed under the pressure he put on. The bar began to bend, take the shape of a C, then an O. Not until it bent around in a full circle did Mark stop his pressure and toss the branding iron down before Mallick.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I can feel the hunger coming on right now.’

  Mallick made no reply. He stared down at the branding iron and the pallor which came to his face showed he appreciated the situation in full. Through all the Panhandle country he doubted if more than one man could equal the display of strength he just witnessed.

  Footsteps sounded outside the building, and over the blackened lower part of the window showed a familiar hat’s top. Mallick recognized it and so did Freda but she kept quiet. She did not need to speak, the flicker of relief which passed across Mallick’s face warned Dusty and Mark, told them all they needed to know. The footsteps came to a halt before the door and a knock sounded.

  ‘Mr. Mallick!’ called a voice. ‘You all right, the boys aren’t out here.’

  Even as Mallick started to rise, opening his mouth to utter a yell to the man outside, his plan failed. Dusty’s left hand flipped across his body, the white handled Army Colt left his holster, its seven and a half inch barrel thrusting up to poke a yawning muzzle under Mallick’s chin, at the same instant the hammer clicked back under Dusty’s thumb.

  ‘Get rid of him!’ Dusty warned in a savage whisper, ‘or you’ll be talking without a top to your head.’

  Mallick hired paid killers, men who sold their gun-skill to the highest bidders. He knew such men would never hesitate to carry out such a threat as Dusty made. Nor, looking at the small Texan’s grim face, did he doubt but that his slightest hesitation would see a bullet crashing into his head. Mallick slumped back into his chair, sweat pouring down his face as he opened his mouth. He tried to keep his voice normal, and yet still convey a warning that things were wrong to the man outside. He hoped that for once in his life Elben the town marshal might show some sign of sense.

  ‘It’s all right, marshal,’ he called. ‘I told them to go along to the saloon.’

  Much to Mallick’s relief the words prevented Elben from entering the room. He hoped the marshal might be following his usual practice of spending the afternoon in the saloon and would miss the two men, then mention the fact to the boss who would form his own conclusions and have a party down this way fast.

  In this Mallick was to be disappointed. Elben shrugged, knowing no important business to be taking place inside. He strolled on, passing around the end of the building and heading down to the small house with the red light, having some civic duty to attend to, the collection of his weekly contribution from the madame to what they referred as election campaign expenses. From the house he returned, after a time to the jail.

  While Elben attended to his self-appointed duties Mallick, one of the men who employed him, sat in the Land Agent’s office hoping against hope that help would come.

  ‘Write!’ Dusty snapped, pointing to the pen and paper. ‘Make it pronto!’

  Mallick did not argue. He had worked himself up the path to defiance when he saw Elben’s hat passing the window. Only Dusty had pricked the balloon before it could be used and Mallick had nothing left with which to be defiant. He threw a glance to where Mark Counter took the rope from his own saddle, went towards the moaning deputies and began making a good fastening job on them. Then he took up the pen and began to write.

  Having watched everything with puzzled
, then smiling interest, Freda turned to Dusty and asked:

  ‘Is that what you call moral suasion?’

  ‘Rio Hondo style,’ Dusty agreed, taking the paper Mallick wrote out and the letter, comparing the signatures on them. ‘It’ll do. Hawg-tie him, Mark.’

  ‘Like a hawg,’ Mark agreed, gagging the deputies with their own bandanas. ‘I picked up your double eagle, out there, Dusty, want it back?’

  ‘My need’s greater than your’n,’ Dusty answered. ‘But keep it to send a telegraph message to Uncle Devil for me after we leave here.’

  With hands long skilled in securely tying things, Mark flipped the rope around Mallick’s shoulders. Dusty sat on the edge of the desk and watched the hog-tying process, he also started to question Mallick.

  ‘Like to see your boss,’ he began.

  ‘He’s not here yet,’ Mallick replied.

  ‘When’d he be coming out here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who ordered the fence built?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘Keller did!’

  ‘You said he wasn’t here,’ Freda pointed out.

  ‘He sent a telegraph message. Told me to buy you folks out and fence his property.’

  ‘How long have you been out west, hombre?’ Mark asked, quickly securing the man’s wrists together.

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘You know how us folks feel about wire?’ Dusty went on.

  ‘Yeah. But Keller ordered me to lay it.’

  ‘He doesn’t know how much land he’s got then?’ Mark said, thinking how much wiring a vast spread like the Double K would cost.

  Mallick surged against the ropes and the expression which flickered across his face at the words surprised Dusty. Although he did not know what might have caused it the words had hit Mallick hard. Dusty could read facial expressions and knew fear when he saw it. He saw it this time in the bearded face of the Land Agent. Mallick threw a look at the wastepaper basket, then jerked his eyes away once more. Yet he left it too late. Dusty followed the direction of the other man’s gaze. The basket contained only a small pile of pieces of paper as if a man idly ripped up something and tossed it in. Only an idle action and odd scraps of paper would not bring the fear and desperation to Mallick’s face.

  Bending down Dusty scooped the paper from the basket. Mallick gave a snarl of rage and struggled impotently against the securing ropes, but Mark held him down and Freda jumped forward with her own handkerchief to gag him. Once more the girl proved herself capable of cool and fast thought for neither Dusty nor Mark gave her any sign of needing help.

  What is it?’ she asked.

  Dusty spread open the crumpled torn pile of paper and looked down at it.

  ‘A map of some kind. It’ll take time to fit all this together right and we don’t have time to spare, gal. I’ll take it with me.’

  Fear, hate and worse showed in Mallick’s eyes as he struggled impotently against the taut ropes which held him fast. He felt himself lifted to his feet, hauled into a corner where he could not be seen from the windows, then sat with his back against the wall while Mark lashed his ankles together. Mark knew his business, knew the discovery of Mallick and his crowd might mean death for the girl, Dusty and himself. So Mark aimed to see discovery was less likely. He dragged the now conscious and groaning deputies to where Mallick sat, propped them against the wall and used the last of the Agent’s rope to secure their feet together. They now sat tied in line and it would be unlikely, if not impossible, that they could manage to roll, wriggle or crawl out into view, or even to where by kicking or stamping against the walls they might attract attention.

  Freda crossed the room and looked down at the three bound men.

  ‘We won’t be selling, Mr. Mallick,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s go, gal,’ Dusty drawled, watching Mark lock and bolt the rear door.

  Cautiously Freda started to open the front door, meaning to peer out and make sure their departure would be undetected. This action did not meet with Dusty’s approval.

  ‘Go on straight out, gal,’ he ordered. ‘Act like you’ve been to see Mallick on business, not like you’re robbing the bank.’

  Holding down the comment which bubbled at her lips Freda stepped through the door. She had no sooner got outside than a hand caught her arm and turned her. She gave a muffled squeak, felt herself scooped up into Mark’s arms. His face came down, lips crushing her own in a kiss. The girl struggled, her little hands hitting Mark on the shoulders. Then he released her and she staggered back a pace. Her right hand came around in a slap which jerked his head aside.

  ‘Just because I talk friendly—’ she began hotly.

  ‘When you pair of love-birds have done,’ Dusty put in. ‘I’ve locked the door and we can move off.’

  Freda’s angry outburst faded, contrition came to her face. Then she flushed red and glared at the two men. Mark put a hand to his cheek and grinned.

  ‘That’s a mean right hand you’ve got, gal.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she replied. ‘But you might have warned me. I’ve heard about you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ grinned Mark. ‘I could feel it. Anyway it spoils things when the gal knows what she’s going to get. I’ll see to getting word to Ole Devil and you take care of Russian Olga here, Dusty.’

  ‘Who’s Russian Olga?’ Freda asked, watching Mark walk along the sidwalk making for the Wells Fargo office, while Dusty headed her across the street towards the waiting buckboard.

  ‘She’s a gal we saw one time,’* Dusty replied. ‘Claims to be the female fist fighting champion of the world, only she got licked that time.’

  ‘Girls fist f— You’re jobbing me!’

  ‘Nope. There’s a few of them about. Get the buckboard and head for the store and when we get inside don’t be surprised at how I act. I don’t want anybody thinking we’re friends.’

  ‘Scared I might ruin you socially?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘Call it that,’ grinned Dusty in reply. ‘That slap you gave Mark’d’ve helped if anybody was watching, wouldn’t make you look real friendly with us. Only we had to stop anybody seeing me lock the door and Mark reckoned kissing you’d be as good a way of hiding me as any.’

  ‘And I slapped his face, poor Mark.’

  ‘He’ll live.’

  Freda remembered where Mark was headed and a thought struck her.

  ‘Won’t your Uncle Devil object to your neglecting your work?’

  ‘He’ll turn the air blue and blister my hide, but he’ll be behind me all the way and if this thing blows too big he’ll get help here, happen we send for it. Now get in the buggy — and remember, gal, you’ve just been made to sell your home. Act like it, don’t look so all-fired pleased with yourself.’

  When Freda entered Roylan’s store she looked dejected almost on the verge of tears. Matt Roylan, sleeves rolled up to expose his muscular arms, leaned his big bulky, powerful frame on the counter and looked across the room towards the door. The lean, gun-hung hard-case with the deputy’s badge also looked. He leaned by the cracker barrel into which he dipped his hand at regular intervals. His eyes studied the girl, then went to Dusty who followed on her heels.

  ‘Supply her,’ Dusty ordered as they reached the counter.

  ‘Says which?’ asked the gunman.

  ‘You want to see the paper?’

  Dusty made his reply with a cold smile flickering on his lips. The lanky gunman studied Dusty, reading the signs in the matched guns, in those well-made holsters and the workmanship of the gunbelt. He knew quality when he saw it — and he saw it in the small Texan. Without knowing who Dusty was, the gunman knew what he was. Dusty belonged to the real fast guns, one off the magic handed group who could draw and shoot in less than half a second.

  For his part Dusty tried to give the impression of being a typical hired hard-case, a man who used a brace of real fast guns to off-set his lack of inches. From the looks on the gunman and Roylan’s faces Dusty had made his point, they took him at
face value.

  ‘You one of the boys from the spread?’ asked the gunman, meaning to be sociable. ‘Mallick hire you?’

  ‘Go ask him,’ Dusty answered in an uncompromising tone.

  Watching from the corner of her eye Freda felt amazed at the change in Dusty. He seemed, to be able to turn himself from an insignificant cowhand to any part he wanted to play. Right now, happen she didn’t know him, she would have taken him for a brash, cocky and tough hired gunhand who knew he had the other man over a barrel in more ways than one. She saw that neither Roylan nor the deputy doubted that Dusty brought her from Mallick’s office after forcing her father to sell out.

  ‘You and your father are leaving after all, Freda,’ Roylan said, a touch of sadness in his voice as he looked at the note Dusty tossed in a contemptuous manner before him. His voice held such genuine sadness that Freda felt guilty at having to deceive him, yet she knew she did not dare take a chance on letting hint of her true position slip out.

  ‘She’s leaving, hombre,’ answered Dusty, saving Freda from needing to lie. ‘So shake the bull-droppings from your socks and make with some service.’

  In his own right Matt Roylan could be a tough, hard man. However he knew the futility of tangling with Double K in what now amounted to their town. He might jump the two hired hard-cases, lick them, although the small one looked fast enough to throw lead into him before he could bat an eye. Even if he did manage to lick the two men and throw them out, the Double K held his bank-note and would foreclose on him.

  So Roylan stared to collect the order Freda gave him. Yet somehow, as he worked, Roylan got the feeling that Freda was not quite so grief-stricken as she tried to appear. The girl could not act well enough to continue her pose, at least not well enough to fool an old friend like Roylan. The storekeeper noticed this and felt puzzled by it. He threw a glance at Dusty who sat by the counter and dipped a hand into the candy jar to take one out. Roylan couldn’t think how, but somehow Freda had gathered the note from Mallick, the girl was all right and things not so black as they looked. That would be impossible — unless the small Texan was not what he seemed. Yet he had the mannerisms of a tough hard-case hired gun.